‘France or China, I would say. I have a few special silks in stock, myself.’

Maggie jumped straight in. ‘Marion has a date. She’s going to a Hogmanay Ball.’

Mrs McGiver’s eyes lit up. ‘And who is the lucky man?”

‘Mother!’ Marion’s hushed warning fell on deaf ears.

‘A major. So charming and you can see how fond he is of our lassie.’

Marion gave up any attempt to protest as her mother and Mrs McGiver discussed her.

‘She would look lovely in dusty pink, with her dark hair and pale complexion.’ Mrs McGiver was squinting at her. ‘Or maybe scarlet?’

‘I was thinking more of an opaque sea-green, to match her eyes?’ Maggie proffered.

Mrs McGiver clapped her hands. ‘You are right. I have a beautiful eau de nil satin. Come and see.’

While the two women stroked and critiqued several bolts of greenish fabric, Marion was sent to look through the pattern books.

‘Nothing too revealing, Marion.’ Maggie giggled. ‘We don’t want to show off all your assets too early, do we?’

Marion went pink, and turned to the section of patterns for evening dresses. There were so many different styles to choose. She picked a couple that looked very like the Duchess’s style – frilly with long buttoned sleeves and a modest sweetheart neckline. She marked the pages with a ribbon. She flicked on, satisfied she had found something appropriate, until she came across an illustration of a slender woman, one long leg in front of the other. The dress clung to a small bust, jutting hipbones and ended at the ankle with a small train behind. The neckline ran in a sharp line across the throat, shoulder to shoulder, and the sleeves were puffed slightly at the top, then tight to the wrist. The reverse was pictured too. A swooping, chiffon cowl, exposing pale shoulder blades.

Much less Duchess, much more Mrs Simpson. Marion felt sinful just looking at it.

‘Isn’t that the thing?’ Mrs McGiver was behind her. ‘Mrs Crawford, your daughter has chosen exactly what I would have picked for her.’

Maggie was enraptured. ‘Oh, Marion. For once your height and flat chest won’t work against you! Simple and sophisticated. You will catch George yet.’

Those words ‘catch George’ got Marion wondering. Could she give up the Princesses, her work, her life, to marry a man like George? Could she stay as Governess to the Princesses and still be a wife? If she let herself fall in love with George, what would happen? Was it possible to both be a wife and to keep working?

Three and a half yards of eau-de-nil crepe de chine were purchased, with a yard of wispy chiffon in the same colour for the cowl back, and many afternoons between Christmas and New Year were spent in the spare bedroom where Maggie set up her sewing table and machine.

‘Fine feathers make fine birds,’ she told Marion more than once. ‘And don’t move an inch while I pin this hem.’